Whispers in the Streets
by Furius
Summary: An exploration into Gondor and her relationship with the last ruling steward. Begins from Finduilas' death with a focus on Denethor, spanning the years.


Whispers in the Street

Disclaimer: The canon parts belong to the Prof. Tolkien and his associated heirs and estate. 

Terrible grief enveloped the House of the Steward in the Year 2988 of the Third Age. Gone was fair Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Lady of Gondor. Withering before stone walls and the shadows of the east, casting her eyes ever westwards towards her home, she left, drawing her last breath with her eyes closed, yet calling, it seemed, for her husband and sons who lingered on the sea shore of her father's land once upon a summer time. 

The city mourned for her, Prince Imrahil her brother came personally to say farewell to his sister, and the people, seeing her close kin came with their attendance, arrayed as in blue and white, Swan Knights all, whispered amongst themselves. Surely, surely this Lord's sorrow would not turn to anger. Those were foolish words and thoughts, but there was unease, and there was guilt, for Finduilas' brother resembled her greatly, and seeing him upon his high horse, sad and proud, only reminded the people of Gondor how his sister waned beneath their care. 

This silent reproach lessened the Prince's welcome so that he found the city cold, and the people colder still. Deeper became his grief to imagine that his sister lived among this apathy. He thought he too then, must be guilty for not taking her away, for believing her letters when he should have know better. When had Finduilas ever told another of her sadness? She was the one who comforted him while he cried; he had never seen her weep before except for tears of happiness she shed at her marriage.

She died in Denethor's arms ere Imrahil could see her. For that, among other things, Imrahil begrudged the somber man who to him betrayed his trust and hence dishonored his house. Though he knew it was neither decorous, nor rational, his heart filled with resentment every time his glance turned to the Steward who lived while his sister died. The young, tear-laden faces of his nephews, harkening back too much of his sister and himself at their mother's funeral tore bitterly inside him. Only with the force of his breeding he stopped himself from bearing them away, regardless of their father's consent, from this exasperating, dusty, white, and hard, city.

She had been dead for two days. He stood outside the Steward's office, the overhanging stone arch casting a shadow that concealed his presence. He contemplated upon entry and was inconclusive. Arms crossed at the chest, head lifted in a measured arrogance, biting his lower lip, in a manner later Boromir would unconsciously imitate later on in life, Imrahil waited. He did not wish to announce himself when he had nothing to say. They were alone in this corridor, this he knew, in somewhat an ironic stroke, Denethor had relieved most of the household of their duties for three days. To mourn, the Steward said, disregarding an almost happy light in the eyes of a kitchen boy. Denethor was one who possessed the uncanny ability to ignore anyone, and yet not let them feel it.

They were strangers. The courtship of Finduilas had been short and took place while he was surveying the coast. He had been away from Dol Amroth's capital but three times at the age of twenty and one; once, he returned to see his mother pale and abed, and in the other, his sister was betrothed to perhaps the only man for whom he had felt an immediate dislike. Reason may be, he met Denethor only after she was promised. With the silver ring upon her finger, she was lost to him. The man took her away, she who was friend and confidante, the dear sister who was as a mother to him. He took her to a place facing the rolling shadows, far away from the sea. The jealousy had never entirely left, merely faded with time and distance. He could feel its resurgence, along with the emotions of a grown man, an adept Prince and a trained soldier, it was something more frightening than a child's petulance now.

Denethor seemed as a sweeping shadow as he stood before the tall clerestory, a figure in grieving black that the afternoon sun eluded. They had not spoken. He had brushed pass the Prince coming out of Finduilas' chamber, eyes dazed. Imrahil did not know her sister was dead when he saw her, a familiar stranger, silent and eyes closed upon the white cambric pillows. A high colour illuminated her cheeks, the aftermath of a fever, her skin stretched tightly over her fine features, almost transparent, he called softly to her, and there was no answer. He had approached and touched her cold hand. Then, he knew. And as his own warm fingers touched the colder metal band around her finger, he slipped it off easily. It was already too large.

The ring was still in his pocket. If Denethor noticed it missing as he looked upon his wife's visage the final time before the sepulcher closed, he did not say anything. Imrahil did not want her sister to belong to any man even if she were entombed in Gondor, far away from the waves. It was stupid, and selfish, he later reflected. Unlikely as it seemed to the boy who read her epistles with various amorous nobles, watched her dance with the handsome, laughing young men of his father's court, she wrote, and said, she loved Denethor II, son of Ecthelion, almost old enough to be their father. The blood of long life run strong in the House of Mardil, but no more, perhaps less, than what Finduilas' lineage endowed. He never really believed that Finduilas would really marry Denethor. 

Even so, there was reality, and there was the truth, though he would deny it, it was his; the ring was his, why would he, the brother of Finduilas wish to keep it? Moreover, more importantly, it was hers; he had no right to take it, nor to deprive her…

He opened his mouth to speak but halted in the last moment, an unspoken word vibrating within his throat, instead, he turned away, soft boots silent on the well-kept stone hallways. To hear his voice would to bring only grief and memory. He had nothing to say for someone who now he could only see as an old man, corrupting his sister's youth with his and his city's decay. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, while he owed his allegiance to Gondor, passing the great, carven pillars and the tapestries of ancient magnificence, fancied he hated her Steward. He left Minas Tirith without taking leave, fearing his own words. Once gone, he planned not to return. The people breathed freely again seeing his martial troupe passing beyond the seven walls, their irrelevant fright and rumors dissipating.

Denethor could care less.

Grimmer, colder Denethor became, the connubial years had been far too short. He could not reconcile himself to her death. So dear, he waited long for her, and yet she came only briefly, this gentle fluttering bird of the coast. "Meleth nin," He called for her, knowing she preferred flow of the elder tongue, and never again shall another hear the word uttered from his lips. There were neither speech nor poetry for his lost love in spite all his former eloquence, he was terse to all who spoke to him now, and his words were guarded. Seeing the mad gleam in their Steward's eyes, none disturbed him as he locked himself into his chambers once counsels were over, forbidding entrance to all. The kingdom run smoothly still, no business was interrupted, and the changing of the guards upon the seven walls continued as before. People wondered, speculated, and then forgot, consumed once again by their own joys and sorrows.

Immovable, the people of the court saw this son of Ecthelion, but Denethor knew himself, and he knew that Finduilas carried away a part of him when she left him to journey alone. He was afraid, and he would not admit it. The bed was cold, and too large, the funeral had been over a week, and he still dared not to sleep in it. In all his contempt for the courtiers, politicians that consisted his set, he had never been truly alone before. He had Finduilas when Ecthelion died, and before that, he had his father when his mother died. Now, there was no one.

The parapet where she usually stood to gaze for the sea was empty, and even the guards missed her presence. Since the sickness began, it seemed that a cold breath entered the citadels along with the phalanx of healers, nurses, and strangely dressed men and wizened women claiming bizarre and unholy powers.

Boromir, tempestuous in his moods now withdrew into himself; he would not speak. His nurses and tutors could not find him, or Faramir most of the times. When they finally returned, dirty and often scratched or bruised, the servants did not say anything. They bathed, then dressed them, laying them to sleep, mouths tight. The next day, they would be gone again, escaped through the shadows with nary a guard aware of their presence. Then, the household wait with bated breath until someone found the children in some shadowy crevice of the citadel or other. There was but one slight comfort in this, if any comfort existed at all,where one was, the other could not be far.

Once, someone dared to reproach the sullen Boromir, who did not say anything at the time, but hung his head in apparent shame, his brother beside him, small mouth pressed in a thin line. A moment, he leapt up suddenly, his hand grasping Faramir's and dashed away. The guards could do naught. They could not hurt them, and yet they could not lock them in, for the Steward asked, every morning, the enigmatic question of whether his sons were going where they liked. Honor bound, they did not wish to lie. The Steward's children run wild on the streets of the White City. They did not dare tell the Steward of this, and to their relief, Denethor never asked further.

He sat in his chamber, his right hand supporting his forehead, long fingers somewhat tangled in his hair, still black, though disheveled. His left hand traced a relief of his beloved's face. Hair, forehead, nose, smiling lips, and eyes as gray as a clear evening- he missed her, and half expected her to be behind him when he turned, which he would not. It seemed so real, so near, he could almost fancy her footsteps behind him.

Then suddenly a small figure burst in, "Naneth..naneth …" Faramir called, his face red with excitement and exertion, looking eagerly around the room, a cluster of yellow flowers clasped tightly in his hands. Then he stopped abruptly; his mother does live here any more. Opening his mouth, he was ready to cry.

Then perceiving his father sitting there, Faramir flinched, and hastily, he tried to dry the involuntary tears from his eyes with his dirty sleeve. Seeing that Denethor neither moved nor spoke, finally, tentatively, he asked the question that had bothered him but had neither dared, nor found the occasion to ask. Boromir knew, but Faramir did not see it fitting to ask his brother; he had watched Boromir beat another boy to the ground who had merely mentioned her name. 

Yet he could not hold it any longer. Softly he said, "Where did naneth go? When will she come back?" He waited for the reply. The child did not know that he shattered his father's illusions.

"I do not know," Denethor said, voice and tone cold without meaning to, mind upon other matters. He was infinitely sad, and Faramir's voice, at this moment, seemed a fey whisper from a dream, coming to mock him. Out of the corner from his eye, he saw that the small figure in black did not move. For some reason, the scene was oddly fascinating. He felt as if he watched from the ceiling; a small boy dressed in a somber hue in front of a man to whom he bore a startling resemblance, both expressions grim, both very still. But as he watched his Faramir's bottom lip quiver, a great fear overcame him. _How old is he? _Five, so young, a child, still a babe, he was her son, and he was going to cry. _Is he causing Faramir to cry?_

Uncertain, he came back and studied hard at the relief again, then lifted his eyes to his son's. Gray met gray, all flecked with a light blue, yet the shape, the shape was her's. Suddenly he could not bear it any longer. Faramir needed to know and he himself also needed to know, to finally believe; one could not forever live inside an unreasonable dream.

He opened his mouth with slight difficulty, "She.." The child's face was expectant, he had been brought back from the brink of imminent tears. Waiting, in that infinitesimal moment, Denethor's resolve crumbled. He had decided on telling him the truth but found he could not. The Steward of Gondor could not live in pretence, why could not Faramir? What did he do wrong to hear that his mother would never come back, that he no longer has a mother anymore? Denethor looked down at his hands, ink stained, and embittered with sword-calluses. That all he has is a father who could not raise them without their mother? He never expected, he never knew, _it_ did not show him. Truly, truly, he does not know what to do.

He looked again at the large, wondering eyes, startling similar to his, and to hers. They were eyes Faramir would grow up to in time. Long, black lashes were glistening with tears, and the face seemed especially pale and pointed, small bones were sharp in his cheeks. The horrific memory of Finduilas' gaunt face in her worst days came keenly to mind. _Was no one feeding the boy?_ He lingered on his face, noting dirt and tear tracks clearly visible, then up and down, the black clothes were muddy, and torn in some places. Faramir gazed unwavering at his father, balancing on the balls of his feet. He still desperately wished to know.

Suddenly, there seemed to be a cry of anguish and terror in the corridor. Quicker than Denethor thought possible for a child, Faramir ran and opened the door and rushed outside. 

An argument ensued. High, piercing, children's voices penetrated the heavy doors to the Steward's chamber. Something shattered. There was some murmuring, and then, there's the distinct sound of sobbing, both of them.

With a start, Denethor realized that he had not seen either of his sons since their nurses took them away after Finduilas' final farewell. Indeed, he did not even remember seeing them at the funeral. Were they there at all? He only remembered the stone that shut against him, blocking him from her, whom he thought, as his doom's cruel taunt, became in death as beautiful as she was in the bloom of her life.

The sobbing did not stop outside the door, rather, it continued, more plaintive, more pitiful than before. Then there's the unmistakable sound of another crash. He winced, feeling for a moment, he himself, a thousand fragments across the stones on the ground, irretrievably broken. 

"You are hurt," The words came suddenly to his ears, almost incoherent, "I'm sorry," A soft voice said, Faramir's, "Perhaps we should wait till someone cleans it up." The crying resumed.

Denethor laid the relief aside. He stood up suddenly, and marched across the room. His hand paused briefly, almost imperceptibly, lingering before the door handles. Frowning, the thin line between his brow creased, and a pensive look settled into his features.

It seemed unnaturally bright outside his chambers. He found debris on the ground, and the Steward's heirs bawling at the top of their lungs. Sensing his approach, immediately, the elder stopped, grabbed the younger by the hand, and made as if ready to escape. Denethor noticed his feet were bare and scratched; widening red stains painted his britches.

"What happened?" Denethor demanded, quickly stepping to block their way, very conscious of each crackle of glass beneath his boots, Boromir looked away and did not answer him.

"What happened?" He turned to Faramir, who was starting to hiccup. The boy looked to his brother. Noticing this, Denethor bent before Faramir, therefore blocked his view of Boromir and asked him again. 

Boromir would not leave without his brother, this he had gathered in all the years he had been their father.

"Tell me what happened Faramir." He said evenly. Faramir strained to look for his brother. Denethor laid both hands on the boy's shoulder.

"Look at me Faramir." The eyes that still turned away from him were bloodshot, and swollen. Unconsciously Denethor's grip tightened, and Faramir whimpered.

"Oh." Denethor said, at a loss again, losing hold. Instead, he gently touched a tight fist at Faramir's side. He soon felt his hand being tightly clasped.

"Do you want some water?" He asked; there was a vague memory of crying being dehydrating and exhausting. Someone told him this a long time ago…

Faramir nodded then winced as Denethor laid a feathery touch on his cheek. There's cut there, bleeding quite profusely, mingled with his tears. "Does it hurt?" He asked gently. Faramir looked at him for a moment and shook his head.

Sighing, Denethor stood up, hoping he still remember what to use for such injuries. It must hurt badly because he had removed a small, albeit brutally sharp piece of glass from it. He admired the boy's resilience.

But as he turned to face his eldest, Faramir held tightly in his left hand, Boromir looked at him with a sense of resentment Denethor found unnerving. He reminded him of someone.

A look of pure hatred emanated from the boy's eyes. He was starting to edge closer.

"Don't move, Boromir, you are going to cut your feet if you do." Boromir stopped his slow progress, and for a moment, still five paces from his brother, his face crumbled and he looked like what he was, a lost child. He bit his lower lip and looked at his brother. Then, to his surprise, Denethor came close and picked him up without letting go of Faramir.

He did not squirm in his father's arm, and allowed himself to be carried without resistance. Nonetheless, Denethor was worried. It was too easy. He remembered his son heavier than this, and he did not remember the sharp elbows that dug into his chest.

Setting both his sons on the bed, Denethor went looking for water, bandage and some healing salve. Thankfully, he found them without much trouble and returned to find his sons where he had set them. He talked with Faramir as he washed his face then applied the pale yellow gel to his cheek, as gentle as he could, and halted whenever the child winced. He cut a small piece of bandage and placed it on the cut, hoping the cohesive ability of the salve would allow it to stay on long enough for cut to close. Boromir was giving him an ironic look as all this was going on, watching his father try to still Faramir's arms as they curiously plucked at the bandage. Everytime Faramir's hand went up, Denethor put his larger one over, and bore it down. Gradually, however, Faramir forgot his irritation as he watched his father walk away again.

Denethor came back again with more bandage, and a basin of water.

"Boromir, let me see your arms and legs." In defiance, Boromir tucked his feet under him, staining the bedcovers, then stared at his father as if daring him to do something. Denethor seemed to have given up, for he put aside everything and sat down on a chair beside the bed.

"At least, say something, Boromir, anything." Denethor said, his voice with that note bordering between fatigue and hysteria. He hoped Boromir's wounds were not deep, and that he had already seen it all.

Expressionless, Boromir pointed at his father and made a gesture to his brother, who nodded and gave his brother a hard look. Denethor looked upon this exchange with mingled fascination and horror. Somehow, it just seemed very wrong that he did not remember what Boromir's voice sounds like. 

"What happened? Why would you not talk?" Denethor was exasperated, "Why are you so dirty? Where have you been?" It was utterly inexplicable to Denethor why his children would go about without shoes and in rags as well. It was like no one had been taking care of them…

"In Valar's name, tell me what happened Boromir!"

"I dreamed." Boromir replied, still laconic. He regarded his father warily, a look unnatural on his young face.

"And…"

"There was a ship," He said, "She was on it." Boromir added after a while and Faramir suddenly started crying. Straight away, Boromir put a protective arm around his brother, glaring at the Steward of Gondor, as if warning him not to come any closer.

Faramir continued to cry, collapsing against his brother, yet looking at his father, "We dreamed about her, she is somewhere, why isn't she here? I want naneth nin…I miss her…"

Boromir's voice was strangely quiet, "I went looking for Faramir when I awoke, and did not find him; when he came out, I was at once happy and angry. He had me worried despite all he said. I did not know where he was. I wanted to hit something, something heavy was pressing on me, so I threw piece of stone against the window, and it shattered. Faramir was frightened and would not come with me. We knocked the vase over, than we argued, for he still wanted to know," He gave Denethor a knowing look, "And then you came." He made an impervious gesture.

Where did the boy pick up these things, his father wondered; and he still did not know what they were arguing about. 

"You see, Lord Denethor," Boromir inclined his head, barely tilting his chin, "I have reached a decision," He did not wait for Lord Denethor to recollect his expression or his tongue, "I have decided that the next time naneth goes on the ship, I shall run up the planks and go with her. She knew I was there, for she waved."

"No!" Denethor uttered a strangled cry, lunging forward and holding his son tightly, "I'm here, you won't leave me would you? You would not leave Faramir?"

"Ada, you are choking me," Boromir said, his breath muffled, Denethor eased his hold. Then Boromir, unfazed, still within the Steward's arms, said, "Faramir said he would come too. I would not leave without him if he does not want to."

Agitated enough to lose words, Denethor looked at his other son.

Faramir nodded, decidedly echoing his brother's sentiment. "I saw her too, in my own dream, and she was very near. Boromir said we would go together to her, out of the circle that was around us."

"A circle drawn out of chalk, like the ones in the courtyard when we played." Boromir continued. Dark eyes, dark hair, resembling him in face, though not in mood, nor expression. At that moment, Denethor doubted everything he ever knew of his son, and his wife.

A heavy weight settled on his chest, and that discomfort of the son was on the father.

"Don't go, stay with me." He managed to gasp through lungs that would barely hold his own breath.

He let go of Boromir and fell on the bed, looking up at the two dark heads at either side of him. Faramir was stroking his cheek with a small hand, fear evident in his eyes. At that moment, Denethor wanted nothing more than to reassure his small son that no, he was not going to leave him. However, attention was given to the dire things whispered into his left ear by his ten year old son.

"They say that she was murdered," Boromir said, "They say that the stone walls killed her, they say you would not let her leave when she begged you to, they said Lord Denethor should never have wed Finduilas of Dol Amroth, they said she should never have been the mother of Boromir and Faramir. They said you killed her."

Denethor looked at Boromir, whose eyes were half closed again, then at Faramir who nodded at him, tears flowing down his face.

With trembling hands, Denethor drew Faramir towards him, stroking the soft black hair, feeling the tears soak into his shirt. Boromir watched immobile for a moment, than he too, came into his father's embrace. He never wanted to believe, but it was hard, so very hard not to believe when there was no one else.

Father and sons wept for the lost beloved. And their grief finally amended somewhat, they fell into slumber, for sadness was exhausting to the body as well as the soul. Faramir fell 

Though he slept, Denethor's dreams were uneasy.

Images of her face, her figure, filled his eyes.  

They were in the throne room. She stood before him, proud, her fey beauty lighting the dim hall. Altogether she seemed pale, silver pale like the moon. Her dress was the Dol Amroth blue, now dark as the shadows compared to her skin.

"What did you do to me?" She asked. Her eyes were haunting. "Why Denethor, why?"

"Finduilas, Finduilas…"He called, standing up, arms reaching out to her. but the figure melted away…

Then he was suddenly in the streets of Gondor, clothed in only shirt and britches. A bitter wind chilled him. He was in a circle of people, they were pointing, whispering, and laughing at him. Voice condemned and mocked. Dou

"Why did you not notice?"

"I don't know."

"What happened to the Lady of Gondor?"

"Why did you let her die?"

"You did not love her. She was mere political chattle to you wasn't she?"

"No." 

"Could you not have saved her?"

He did not reply. He could not think, how could he? Is that what the people thought of their Steward? That he wedded her without her consent, that he…. He hung his head, bitterness and sadness torrents within his breast. But it is true is it not? He let her die. He could have done something to save her.

Shame weighed heavily in his heart, and then it seemed that the people of Gondor picked up the stones and hurled them at him…

When he looked up, eyes bleary with a restless sleep, his sons were gone; the bunch of crushed flowers lie on the rumpled sheets on the bed.

**To be continued.**

AN: Feedback and criticism welcomed and appreciated, I revise things. I do try to write canonically. I am still somewhat confused about Imrahil's age, therefore I am following Encyclopedia of Arda.

Next chapter should be easier to write.


End file.
